


A Poet

by abbyisnotcool



Series: Reunions (It) [3]
Category: IT (1990), IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Gay, Hey, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Stenbrough, Suicide Attempt, Thanks, You're Welcome, because i didn't know if i wanted to kill stan, bill denbrough is a top, it look so long for me to write, really sad plz help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 20:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14553222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbyisnotcool/pseuds/abbyisnotcool
Summary: Bill Denbrough was not a poet.He couldn't rhyme, keep rhythm, or just do anything relating to a poem.Yet, he found himself up at night, writing poems about a boy and his love for birds.





	A Poet

**Author's Note:**

> TW- Implied self-harm, kinda suicide attempt.
> 
> Sorry buds.

 Bill Denbrough was a writer.

His professor would disagree, but Bill thinks he is a writer. A good one at that. 

When _The Dark_ was posted and he earned his first 200 dollars, he was proud. Everyone around him was proud, but his professor and classmates scoffed at his success.

“Money isn’t everything” his professor sneered at him. Yeah, well fuck him. 

Bill Denbrough did not stutter, he was confident, he was strong in the eyes of many. He can remember his childhood friends calling him “ _Big Bill_ ”. That’s really all he could remember about his childhood. Bill knew he had a bike, and a name for it, but nothing past that.

He knew he had friends, but nothing more. 

And he was content with that. With his life as a writer, with his wife Audra. That’s what he was, and what he would do.

But Bill Denbrough was not a poet.

He was horrible at it. His rhymes never fitting, never making sense. He tried making a haiku but mixed up and thought the pattern was 5, 6, 7. Bill was positive his professor was going to strangle him.

So he never wrote poetry.

Except, Bill would find himself late at night, while Audra was still sleeping, writing short poems. Always the same topic. It was birds, or a boy who loved birds. Sometimes darker, almost gruesome.

His hand would write without thought, almost like it was trying to tell him something. Bill read over every single one the next morning, not understanding what each one meant.

 

‘ _Chirps fill the air,_

_when morning dew dries._

_But no one can here Its lair,_

_Filling with children’s cries_ ’

 

Bill stares at the poem, that he once handed in for a prompt given by his professor. It was the first A he had gotten on something. 

“ _Outstanding_ ” was what the paper said when Bill got it back.

He didn’t _understand_.

There were worse ones, made of jumbled words that could not be understood. Almost like a cry for help.

 

‘ _don’t make a sound_

_but he’s screaming._

_I hear his screams._

_“You left me!”_

_“I’m right here!”_

_but he can’t hear me now._

_he’s dead._ ’

Bill shudders every time he read that one. It made his head hurt, something clawing at the back at his head. Worry, pain, and nausea fill his lungs and throat. One time, he threw up reading his poems.

But there were sweet ones. Bill liked those ones.

 

‘ _he’s sitting in the clearing,_

_watching the birds dance._

_eyes flickering back and forth_

_shining with wonder._

 

_I watch from a distance,_

_for I am entranced_

_with the boy who loves the birds._

_I hope he loves me back_.’

 

Bill stares at Audra still sleeping and looks back at his paper. He knew Audra didn’t know most things about him, but he knew everything about her. And she hated birds.

 _Then who was this about_?

He thought. And thought. Only vague memories came up, like sitting in the sun or curly hair or _fucking Passover_?? He’s not even Jewish!

Sometimes, he would walk throughout town and just think about his life before Audra. Before going to college.

And _nothing_ came up. No girlfriends, only his small group of friends. All he remembered clearly was his dumb stutter (he only gets it at high moments of stress) and the Quarry. He remembers his bike, and his house.

Georgie’s disappearance during the storm. He _still_ blames himself.

But that still gives him no answers to the boy he writes about. _Is it fake or are they real_? They sure as hell seem real. It keeps Bill up at night. Re-reading and thinking and pondering and _nothing_!

Hoping to find more information, he put his hand down, begging for another poem. 

but what he got was... _terrifying_.

 

‘ _don’t go **I** n the gray water._

_don’t step, it’s dir **T** y ._

_poi **S** on ivy is everywhere._

_it’s choking him in fe **A** r._

_his eyes are wide, g **L** azed._

_everyone around is cry **I** ng._

_can’t you hear the **L** oud screams?_

_list **E** n._

 

_you can’t **S** top it._

_you c **A** n’t, bill._

_you were ne **V** er strong enough._

_who did you think you w **E** ’re?_

_a **S** avior?_

_s **T** rong?_

_that w **A** s never true._

_**N** o. You have lived a lie._

 

_now turn around._

_look at the letters capitalized._

_maybe you can protect one thing._ ’

 

“Bill?”

He snapped out of his daze, and covered the paper quickly.

“Yes dear?” She rolled around in the bed more. He thought she was sleep talking for a good second. Until she spoke again.

“The phone keeps on ringing. Pick it up?” Bill didn’t even hear it. He looked down at the poem as he grabbed the phone, writing down each capital word.

**ITS**

“Hullo?” He slurred. Bill heard shuffling on the other line. He started to sweat.

**ALIVE**

Bill started to question his sanity when he froze for a second, not able to comprehend why he was about to vomit.

“Is this the Denbrough residence?” Bill was on the verge of tears, frightened and confused.

**S**

“Yes?” 

 **A**

“Is this Bill Denbrough?” 

**V**

“Yes??”

**E**

“Are you sure?”

“Wha- yes I’m sure?? What does that even mean-“

“This is Mike Hanlon. From Derry.” Bill stopped. That sounded familiar, he wrote the last letter down. He stared down at the paper, and was silent.

**STAN**

_**SAVE STAN. ITS ALIVE. SAVE STAN.** _

For a long. Time. He... he couldn’t breathe. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

“Mike... is It back?” He heard a gasp from the other side.

 _Save Stan_.

“How did you know-“

 ** _Save Stan_**.

“Have you called anyone else yet?” Bill was hyperventilating. He could feel Audra staring at him. But he could care less.

**_Save Stan._ **

“Yeah, Richie and Eddie... what’s this about-“ thank _FUCK_.

“Where does Stan live?” He could hear Mike’s confusion.

“Atlanta, Georgia.” Bill scribbles the address, gets up and pulls his suitcase out of the closet.

“Do me a favor... **do not call Stan**.” Mike gulps and shudders. He’s panicking.

“ _Why_?” Bill tenses up.

“ _Just fucking t-tttruu-stt me Mike!_ ” Bill screams, then gasps at his stutter. He sighs, and starts throwing his clothes in. He sees Audra in the corner of his eye, basically screaming at him ‘ **what are you doing**!’.

“I’m going to Stan myself. Something bad will happen if you tell him about It. I’ll send you a picture of why I know this. I’ll see you in Derry in a couple of days.” He takes the phone away from his ear, and hangs up.

Audra runs up to him. But he doesn’t care.

He can’t care.

_Saving Stan is his only priority._

* * *

Bill is standing on the doorstep, holding his backpack and suitcase. He’s prepared for the worse, and ready to fight if he needs too. 

He pressed the doorbell on the beautiful house. He waits. And waits.

And waits.

Until the door swings open, and a pretty woman answers the door. She looks him up and down, then frowns at his suitcase and backpack.

“uh... hello?” She says, staring at him. Bill finds his voice.

“Hi, sorry to intrude, but is this the Uris residence?” The woman open and closes her mouth.

“Yes, it is. I’m Patty Uris. May I ask why?” So Stan has a wife. Jealousy boils in his stomach, but he doesn’t understand why.

“I’m here for Stan Uris. I’m an old friend from childhood, and I have some news about our old town. Is it okay if I go in? I won’t be staying for long.” _They_ won’t be staying for long. He smiles kindly at Patty, who flushes.

“Yes of course!” Bill steps inside, while Patty closes the door.

She leads him to the living room, and gestures to the couch.

“I’ll go get him.” He mutters a thank you as she turns and goes up the stairs. He sits there, thinking of what to say. God, he hasn’t felt this nervous in years.

He hears footsteps behind him. He gulps, and turns.

 _Bill remembers why he felt jealous._

Stan was still beautiful, just like when they were teenagers. His curly hair was shorter, but it was the same. His stoic face ever so... _stoic_ , but if he made one joke, it would crack into a smile.

It seems Stan was having the same epiphany, as Patty just watched them stare at each other. She cleared her throat.

“I’ll go get you some drinks!” She claps her hands, and walks towards where he assumes is the kitchen.

They stare for another minute. Maybe two. Until Bill breaks the silence.

“uhh.. hi?” He cracks a grin, and Stan comes tumbling down on the couch. He looks so exhausted, also pale. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. God, it’s gonna get worse.

“Hey Big Bill.” Stan stares at him, dumb founded. Bill smiles at the nickname, all the while blushing.

Bill places his hand on Stan’s knee. “How are you?” He says quietly, hoping it will calm Stan down. It does.

“I’m doing okay. I’m making a living,” Stan smiles wearily, “Why are you here?” Something is wrong with him. He’s... ~~_strange_~~.

“You’re not going to like it.” Bill whispers. Stan tenses. His eyes go back and forth, his stoic persona drops for a second, _fear_ flashing through his eyes.

“Don’t tell me...” Stan gasps, staring into his eyes. Bill nods, and confirms all his fears.

“ _It’s back._ ”

 _save Stan_ _save Stan sa **ve Stan save Stan save Stan-**_

** _DONT LET HIM LEAVE THE COUCH-_ **

“I see.” Stan is as white as a ghost. Stan shuffles, and Bill grabs his wrist, knuckles turning white. Stan flinches, and looks down and back at Bill again. Stan tries to pull away, and get up from the couch. His eyes are screaming for help, yet Bill tightens his grip and holds Stan down.

“ _What are you doing_!?” Patty yells at Bill, marching over to him. But Stan stops her with his free hand. He looks up to her, eyes holding no life. Patty shudders.

“Patty... _go upstairs_.” She nods quickly, and she’s gone.

Bill and Stan are glaring at each other, Stan still trying to leave his grasp. Bill holds on tightly, making sure he can’t slip out.

“What the **_fuck_** are you doing?” Stan basically screams, “ _why are you holding me down_?” Bill looks at Stan’s hands. His nails are digging into his skin. He starts to see more things that are concerning him.

Stan’s eyes have bags, like he hasn’t been sleeping at all. Bill can feel his rib cage, as if he’s not eating. His sleeves rolled up, and he can see white lines, some new, covering his forearms. As Bill took this in, he realized what he needed to do.

“I came here because I knew this was going to happen.” Stan looked at Bill, wide eyed and shaking. He knew Bill saw his arms.

“I kept on writing poems about you. About us. About It,” Bill murmured, circling his arms around Stan, “the last one was a warning about you. it said ‘ _save Stan_ ’. I didn’t know what it meant. I do now.” Stan was taking in deep breathes, slowly losing it.

Bill pressed his head on Stan’s shoulder, his body now surrounding him.

“ _You we’re going to kill yourself if I didn’t stop you._ ” 

Stan started to hyperventilate, and Bill lightened his grip on his wrist.

“ _Breathe_ with me.” Bill takes Stan’s hand, and places it on his pulse point. As Stan starts to calm down, he looks at Bill.

“I care about you Stan. I know the fear that you feel. The terrifying thought of the clown. The painting, being left alone,” Stan whimpers, but Bill continues, “But, we have the losers. You have me. I won’t leave you again. I never meant to leave you.”

Stan turns to look at Bill. They stare at each other for a few seconds. It felt like forever.

“ _I loved you then. I love you now_.” Bill holds Stan’s cheek. Stan’s lips trembled, and a loud sob came tumbling out of his mouth. He buried his head in Bill’s shoulder, tears soaking his jacket in no time.

Bill held him throughout his sobbing, kissing his head and whispering words of comfort. When Stan finally looked up, eyes puffy, Bill smiled at him. Stan grabbed Bill’s face, and _kissed him_.

It was a tender kiss, one full of love and regret of losing each other. Regret of not helping Stan through this difficult time for him. When Bill pulled away, he remembered Patty upstairs. But he couldn’t care.

“I’m sorry,” Stan murmured, “something always felt wrong after High School, and I knew the moment I figured out why, I would _off_ _myself_... ~~I have a pack of blades upstairs~~ -“ Bill cuts him off with another kiss. Stan melts into it.

“Don’t ever do it. _Please_. We can get through this.” Bill holds Stan’s jaw, who tilts his head in his palm. They stare at each other for another second. Then Stan grins.

“So... can I read those poems?” Bill groans, and looks at him brightly. His face falters though.

“After we go to Derry,” Stan’s face flashes in worry, “hey don’t panic. Mike said that It might not be back. It’s just been 27 years, so we need to check up.” Bill knows this is a lie. The poem says so. But, he has to convince Stan to come _somehow_.

 _Hell_ , his poem might be wrong. He just has to keep **_Stan safe_**.

Stan nods. They both smile at each other.

Soon, they’re boarding a flight to Derry. They hold hands, as Stan wears a short sleeved shirt for the _first time_ in _19 years_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this was good.
> 
> I will write this from Stan's perceptive. It might be really sad and triggering, so be warned when it is uploaded.


End file.
